The dark figure slips into the building, becoming one with the darkness at times and nothing more than a shadow at others. He wears the darkness like a velvet cloak; rich and pure. It suits him, a perfect match. He knows it. And uses it to its maximum potential.

It was what he did; using things for everything they were worth. Otherwise, what was the point? He knew hardly anyone, if anyone at all, agreed with him, but this too was something he had realized and accepted a long time ago. He was used to seeing things differently.

It hadn't taken him long to figure out, however, that if anything was used to its full potential, it would break. Sometimes things were just too weak. Sometimes people were just too weak. He knew better than anyone exactly how weak a person could be.

He tries to push the thoughts out of his mind, but they linger persistently, taunting him. He lets out a nearly silent snarl that curls his lips into a terrifying grimace. The memories and thoughts pound against the back of his mind, almost a physical throb. If this gets me caught, he thinks irritably, there will be hell to pay.

Instantly the thoughts and recollections vanish, as completely as smoke vanishes into air and as quickly as water swirling down the drain. His focus is absolute, concentration ferocious in its intensity. He smirks, pleased with his control, and continues along his journey.

He glides along the corridor, allowing himself to both relax into the familiarity of stealthy traveling and tense in preparation for what was about to happen. He narrows his eyes against a stream of dust collapsing from the top of a shelf as he passes by soundlessly. His feet fall silently and his body is tense, every muscle taut in adrenaline and anticipation.

He has hijacked the security system, fed the cameras a continuous loop, and jammed the alarms. The only things left are the guards themselves and opening the cell. His breathing constricts in what he refuses to believe was fear. He's come this far, hasn't he? He has waited for this for so so long…

He treads carefully and after slicking two pads off adhesive tape onto both palms, hoists himself into the ventilation system. While he doesn't have any qualms about killing, the thought of ending the lives of the guards defending the city he once swore to protect leaves a bad taste in his mouth. It would be different from killing random crack heads or petty crooks. That didn't even qualify as killing, the way he sees it. But if he kills the guards…he sighs in annoyance then makes up his mind. He'll just knock out the guards. Bruce would be so proud of me, he thinks sarcastically, and his fingers tighten their grip on the crowbar clenched in his fist.

He kicks the vent cover down and it collapses, clattering to the ground not three feet away from the nearest guard. Perfect. He swings himself down from the vent, bringing his feet to kick the guard squarely in the chest. The guard staggers, sputtering. Quickly, he kneels forward and presses his thumb into a nerve cluster at the base of the guard's neck. The guard slides to ground, motionless.

He proceeds the same way throughout the prison, not stopping until he is sure of absolute privacy. Then, once he has checked, double-checked, and triple-checked his list to make sure he hasn't forgotten something, he creeps down the hall to the maximum security ward.

He leans down to heave one guard's arm up toward the glass panel, pressing the first three fingers of his left hand onto the gel scanner. The light blinks red, then green.

He is in.

As soon as he has stepped foot into the ward, he hears the pounding of fists against glass. Six inches of bulletproof, fireproof, secured glass, that is. From all sides of the ward, there are criminals shaking their fists at him, kicking at their doors, begging him to take them with him when he left, demanding to be let out.

He ignores them all.

He passes by Poison Ivy first, her heart shaped face contorted with rage as she shouts at him to take her with him, soundless through the glass yet obvious from her wild gesticulating. He walks by, treating them all the same; as though oblivious to their yells and pleading.

Finally, he reaches the one cell he has been waiting for, plotting about, planning for. He pauses for one terrible, heart stopping moment.

Then he sees the cell's inhabitant's blood red lips move.

"I was wondering when you would arrive," the green haired thing mouths at him.

"You can stop wondering," he replies.

With slightly trembling fingers, he selectes a gel pad similar to the one at the glass panel from his bag and slides the cover onto his shaking finger. Inhale. Exhale.

It was what he used to calm himself. He employed it sometimes when comforting himself, or in telling himself that something would pass soon, would be over soon.

He had used it when Joker had beaten him.

He brings his finger down onto the scanner by the cell door hard, not noticing the throbbing in his finger as he lifts it. The door slides open and a hunched over figure steps out.

"I hadn't expected you, of all people, to-"

He had used it when the Joker had tortured him.

And then it had been over. It had been over all too soon.

Jason smashes the crowbar over Joker's head, watching in satisfaction as the clown slumped to the ground, blood trickling from his forehead and into his green hairline.

Inhale. Exhale.